


Live So Close to Truth

by christchex, el_gilliath, irolltwenties (Shenanigans), Nielrian



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Gen, Implied/Referenced Canon Events, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Character(s), Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours, Podfic Length: 1.5-2 Hours, in which we rosencrantz & guildenstern season 1 of rnm, they really need more than four extras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christchex/pseuds/christchex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_gilliath/pseuds/el_gilliath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nielrian/pseuds/Nielrian
Summary: Growing up in Roswell, New Mexico was never any weirder than your average hometown. Sure, there were the alien themed restaurant and the UFO museum, but mostly the town was quiet and the only trouble to be found was at the local bar.After their 10 year high school reunion, three friends start to discover that a town can hold many secrets, just not for long. As they unravel the mysteries, they're left with more questions.





	1. Live So Close to Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pod_Together 2019.
> 
> Huge thank you to Nicki and Tove with lending their voices and their support to this labor of love! Another huge thank you to Ess Cee for the beta. This wouldn't have gotten done without you awesome people!
> 
> There are a few versions of this poetic: one with podcast interludes and one without. Each of those versions also have options for with music or without. So many choices!
> 
> The music used in this podfic is "I Love You I'm Going to Blow Up Your School" by Mogwai.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story and fic by Shenanigans/[ubiestcaelum](https://ubiestcaelum.tumblr.com)
> 
> Podfic edited and produced by [christchex](https://christchex.tumblr.com)
> 
> Additional voices and support by [el-gilliath](https://el-gilliath.tumblr.com) & [Nielrian](https://nielrian.tumblr.com)

**LIVE SO CLOSE TO TRUTH**

PODFIC with Podcast and Music: [(Right Click to Save)](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1morUbDsKS4aMsiz-bAT49w_QaB-62bKp/view?usp=sharing)

PODFIC with Podcast and No Music: [(Right Click to Save)](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1f3U3A8sH_7AekU9j8OffJtS-iFLKovw6/view?usp=sharing)

PODFIC without Podcast and Music: [(Right Click to Save)](https://drive.google.com/file/d/12qb_qOaAkdV27MkaVTypqrEKih-Wzrl1/view?usp=sharing)

PODFIC without Podcast and With Music: [(Right Click to Save)](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1jy22xqlBI4j8rZNgjmmv6b3-6P4jPQt4/view?usp=sharing)

* * *

“All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your  
eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.”  
-Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

“You’re not still feeding the fucking raccoons are you?” Maggie asked, crashing her shopping cart into the side of Cyd’s where it was paused in the pet food aisle. Cyd Gough was a petite strawberry blonde who had freckled wildly in the New Mexico sunshine. She had the grace to look guilty before clutching the green bag of cat food to her chest.

“No.”

“Cyd.” Maggie leveled her a black look, arching a pointed eyebrow at the three bags that were already in the cart. “Are you lying to me? Isn’t that like a sin or something?”

The music overhead was a tinny synthetic pop version of a classic country song, the aisles of the grocery store lit by the thin flat white of the overhead light. Cyd hadn’t changed out of her purple scrubs and looked ridiculous in the patterned unicorn print with rainbows over the well worn clogs, hair caught up in a braid that she’d pinned into a lazy bun. The girl was round faced and curvy with a surprisingly tiny waist. Maggie didn’t have the heart to translate some of the things she’d heard the bus boy at the Crash Down say about her as he watched her with pining blue eyes and broken english. The dog food was on the right hand side of the lane, ignored in favor of the green bag brand of cat food.

“It’s for the cats,” Cyd answered, voice rushed as she hurried to drop the bag into the cart and get between it and where Maggie was standing. “Really. I can’t... I can’t help it if the raccoons eat it too. They’re foragers. It’s their thing, right? And they added these new locks to the dumpsters so they can’t get in anymore so they’re hungry. That’s just-” she cuts off at the look Maggie sighs in her direction. “It’s for the cats.”

“Right.” Maggie shook her head and relented. “Raccoon apologist.” She ignored the delighted smile Cyd tried to hide.

They walk together through the aisle, turning to start browsing the bread and chips. The front right wheel of Cyd’s cart refused to roll, just wobbled angrily from side to side. “So you’re coming.”

“Undetermined,” Maggie replied, squinting at a loaf of seven grain wheat as Cyd gaped at her.

“You have to come!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

“You’re his date. You _promised_.”

Maggie snagged the loaf from the shelf, setting it on top of her purse in the front child seat of the cart and turned to look at Cyd. Maggie Sones wasn’t a small woman, an even six foot in heels with broad shoulders and ample bosom. She wore a Dr Who t-shirt knotted over a bright yellow pleated skirt and two toned mary janes that matched the navy and yellow motif. She kept her hair short, curls cowlicking around her heart shaped face with bright red glasses. She was constantly being mistaken for someone’s friend in high school, their algebra teacher, the one waitress at the local Applebees, or horrifyingly, once, someone’s drunk Uncle. “Did I?”

Cyd had a spectacular pout, it seemed to ripple out from her over large heart to skid around the corners of her full mouth until her eyes welled and she went a little splotchy. “You wouldn’t leave us at the mercy of-”

“If you say her name she will appear. She’s like Bloody Mary.”

“Is that a ghost story, and you know I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies.”

“The fact that you have never watched an R rated movie is both fascinating and terrifying and I still don’t know how we are friends.” Maggie started pushing her cart again.

“Well, you still have to come.”

Maggie sighed heavily, folding her arms on the push bar and setting her forehead against her wrists, pushing forward and walking by feel. “Cyd.”

“-I don’t have the caterers on speed dial, babe. It’s not something that I should have to work out in the- _look out_!” Isobel Evans put an imperious hand on the end of Maggie’s cart, tossing her a startled affronted glare as she stopped her from battering into her at the end of the aisle. The blond was annoyingly taller than Maggie, slim hipped and elegant like a dancer where she frowned prettily at Maggie and Cyd, basket hooked on her arm filled with BOGO Pinot Grigio and cheese. “Oh my God. Why don’t you watch where you’re going? These are _Tamara Mellon_.” She tilted one heel like the other girls had a clue who made her shoes. Isobel huffed, nose wrinkling before she rolled her eyes so hard they seemed to turn her in the other direction and she stalked off, ponytail swinging in counter rhythm to the sway of her hips. “No, not you, babe. Some person almost ran me down in the bread aisle. Seriously, who eats carbs anymore?”

Maggie glared after her until Cyd reached over and covered her wrist with a light hand. “So, you’re coming?”

“Fuck. Yeah, I’m coming. Fuck that bitch.”

“Maggie!”

“Sorry.”

**  
“This is unbelievable,” Maggie muttered for the fifth time, staring around the rented warehouse space that had each cargo loading bay door open to the cool evening breeze. Above them silver streamers floated, lovely in the lights that strobed pastel blues and pinks over the crowd, breaking on the slowly spinning disco ball to cast stars around the crowd. “This- I just. I’m _angry_. There’s a band. A real _band_ and not some shitty DJ.”

Cyd widened her eyes, sipping the pink fizzy drink that the bartender had scooped from the cut crystal bowls into the clear plastic rocks glass for her. The dance floor was full, pockets of old friends milling around the edges or seated on a few of the couches that were casually scattered throughout the space. There was a full bar and valet parking. “I know. She’s amazing. I don’t even know how she did it?” Cyd sighed, sipping from the straw with a dreamy look. “It’s so classy, like, elegant, you know? She’s incredible. There wasn’t really even that much time to put the whole thing together.”

Over her head, Gilbert and Maggie traded a look. They’d gotten pretty good at talking silently over the irrepressible effervescent optimism that Cydney Gough managed to make likable. Gilbert had become Cyd’s best friend on the third day of kindergarten when she’d skinned her knee on the playground and he’d patted her head awkwardly. He told Maggie years later that it was very much like having a baby duck imprint and he’d just had to get used to the way she followed him around after that day. Gilbert was the sixth child in a catholic family of twelve. He’d been tucked into hand-me down jeans and a beat up t-shirt with a grinning cartoon of Bert and Ernie hugging on the front that simply said Best Friends are Forever. He’d been in the same utilitarian buzz cut his over tired mother had put all the boys into, lining them up in the kitchen and taking the clippers to them one at a time as the oldest girl swept the tufts of black hair away.

He’d grown up in a brightly colored house covered in crucifixes and unconditional love. He’d grown up with kisses and the sort of hands on love that made him easy in his own skin. Maggie had immediately liked him, smiling at him while she’d filed her process paperwork with the County Clerk Archival Department. He’d been singing Corinne Bailey Rae quietly, slightly sharp, and with perfect shoulder choreography. She’d grown up in her own room behind a door that was labeled simply: Keep Out- yes, this means you. She’d spent most of her teen years reading. She’d told herself that she preferred the company of characters to real people as she kept her headphones on, walking the overcrowded halls of Tilden High. She’d managed to make it through grad school with only a few friends, fading with her tendency to isolate. She preferred it, being alone.

Until she’d gotten Cat Scratch Fever and walked into the ER vaguely concerned about the swelling in her wrist on the Fourth of July. She was the careful caretaker of her neighbor’s 18 year old tabby, Daisy, who was basically dead, but so terrifyingly old and cranky that Maggie was convinced that even Death was too afraid to claim the cat. The tabby would stumble stiffly onto her lap while she read and promptly stop breathing, catching up to life with a sudden gasp and purring in a halting and unconvincing parody of happiness. Maggie always looked around, hopeful for help before carefully scooping the skeletal cat onto the warming pad she’d been given by the sweet faced woman who lived across the hall. She’d been moving the tabby when it had seized, biting and scratching at her while she panicked, trying not to punch her neighbor’s dying cat that had latched in a crazed fit to her wrist and dangled slightly while she flailed. Daisy had finally calmed, dropping to shake out the patchy fur and stumble to the heating pad. Maggie had gone to the bathroom, washing the small bite mark and scratches without much thought and gone about her business.

A day later her wrist was swollen, angry red and hot to the touch. She’d filled out the hospital paperwork, settling into the line of mediocre chairs in the lobby to wait for the possible three hours that it usually took to be seen. She’d barely cracked her book when her name had been called, chirped by the happiest looking girl she’d ever seen. Cyd Gough had come into her life with a clipboard covered in motivational stickers, a side braid, teal kitten patterned scrubs, and a dangerously open smile. In retrospect, Maggie hadn’t had much choice in the matter of their friendship.

Cyd Gough was always a sucker for lost causes.

The girl had chatted pleasantly through the walk to the curtained area, through the improbable horror of lancing the wound, the one stitch, and the after care. Maggie knew that she was the oldest girl in a family of five but the middle cousin of a large sprawling extended family. She’d learned more about Roswell in the thirty minutes she’d been sitting with her wrist facing up, fingers curled through the procedure as she watched Cyd rattle on and on.

“You’re incredible.”

“What?” Cyd paused, blinking once before making an amused face and touching the back of her wrist to Maggie’s forehead.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before and I’m starting to think I may have made you up.”

Cyd had rolled her eyes, smoothing the medical tape over the gauze pad with light fingers. “That is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I’m going to keep you.”

“You need to get out more,” Maggie told her, frowning at the bandage on her wrist.

“Awesome! I agree. Meet me at Bean Me Up tomorrow? Say... seven? I finish my shift at five, but Dr Valenti sometimes asks me to help him with his charting, so I’ll probably be done b-”

“Seven sounds perfect.”

Maggie startled herself by showing up.

She kept showing up and, somehow, she had two best friends. For the first time in her life, Maggie Sones had people. She’d been reliably informed that friendship requires sacrifice, so here she was, standing as the dual plus one to her two favorite people at an improbably perfect ten year reunion. Gilberto was somewhere on the dance floor, flailing around in the ridiculous cowboy hat he’d bought just for the occasion. She and Cyd were taking a breather. Maggie wasn’t much for dancing, but Cyd and Gil didn’t seem to care or let that stop them from dragging her onto the floor. She gave Cyd a little shove when Gil threw an imaginary lasso at them, reeling his friend back onto the floor. She needed a drink, maybe some vodka. Anything. Even the fizzy pink prosecco thing would do in a pinch.

“Are you cooking meth?”

Maggie shocked at the urgent hushed question, glancing to the side where a dark haired man was staring casually out at the crowd, missing the utterly devastated look that preceded the full affronted anger that Michael Guerin- town drunk and stupidly hot handyman- shot him.

“Yeah, _absolutely_.

“I’m serious, Guerin,” he glanced around before looking directly at where Michael was sprawled, arm indolent on the back of the couch. “My chemical engineers found high levels of phenyl-2-proponone around your Airstream.”

“It’s not p2P they’re detecting.” Michael Guerin pushed angrily to his feet, pushing into the other man’s space and Maggie finally put together the crutch and the haircut- Alex Manes. “Similar.”

Pink Prosecco was closest. She determinedly moved away from the conversation with the goal of booze in sight. Years of riding the L through Chicago had taught her when to avoid a conversation that had _potential_. This one seemed explosive.

“Excuse me, pardon, s’cuse,” she eeled through the mass of bodies on the dance floor, giving up on politeness and finally just using her bulk to plow through to where Gil and Cyd were dancing. “Guys.”

Gil grinned at her, touching the brim of his ridiculous black cowboy hat. “Ma’am.”

Maggie swatted at him. “Be serious. I just heard that Manes’ gu-”

“ _Alex_ is here?”

“Oh, he’s _Alex_ now, is he?” Cyd pulled her lips over her teeth, making the most ridiculously pleased face at Gil Maggie had ever seen.

“What?” Maggie waved a hand between them. “No. Focus. But, yes, he’s here?” She paused, trying to find her train of thought as Gil pushed up onto his toes to peer around the dance floor.

“I don’t see him anywhere?”

“I promise you, he was here two seconds ago accusing Michael Guerin of cooking meth?”

“Seems accurate,” Gil muttered, deflating back into the conversation.

“Meth? I don’t think- he’s weird, but I don’t think he’d cook meth,” Cyd managed, covering her mouth and looking worried.

“He said something about um... feely two propane?”

“Phenyl-two-propanone,” Cyd corrected absently. “It’s a major component in meth production.”

“Why do you know this?”

“Who do you think did half of Kyle’s chemistry homework in high school? He was always so tired after the big g-”

“Cyd, it terrifies me that the local doctor didn’t pass high school chemi-”

“He did! He’s very smart.” Cyd’s jaw went stubborn and she stared up at the two of them. “He graduated top of his class. He’s a surgeon now. He’s probably at the hospital right now saving lives. He’s too... he’s too important to come to something like a ten year high school reunion.”

“I’m sure he’ll come,” Gilbert managed, reaching to touch Cyd’s hand comfortingly.

Cyd brightened, touching her hair and smiling at them. She was out of her normal patterned scrubs, lovely in a pale pink sundress with a delicate floral pattern and curled hair caught up in a loose braided updo. “But, I don’t think he’s cooking meth.” She changed the subject deftly, sniffing and making sure she was back to her bright bubbly self. “It’s probably just the case of Nail Polish Remover he bought at Costco last week.”

“Michael Guerin has a Costco membership?”

“Who buys a case of Nail Polish Remover?”

They’d spoken at the same time and Cyd looked between them both. “He does it about once a month? I thought it was for some car paint repair stuff or something?”

“That-”

“You don’t know anything about cars, Gil. Let’s just nod and accept that because it’s super...” Maggie trailed off, noticing the way the dance floor had stopped, everyone looking to the open garage doors that yawned into the night. There was a murmur of shock that seemed to ripple out from the two people standing at the edge of the crowd. Maggie recognized Deputy Evans immediately, he had a loose bow legged stance that drove her to distraction. He’d taken to stopping by the library on Tuesdays to replace the books he was working his way through. She’d managed to say hi without blushing exactly once and had to stop herself from daydreaming about his crooked smile, low voice, and floppy hair that couldn’t resist falling over his forehead.

“God damnit,” she muttered. Max Evans was wearing his battered brown leather jacket, the blue plaid, and rangy blue jeans. He had those big hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, making his thighs look impossibly sexy and his shoulders distractingly broad. He was watching the crowd with a worried crinkle between his brows. Next to him was the prettiest girl Maggie had ever seen. She was about the same height as Cyd but all perfectly placed curves and lush bits of skin and lean muscle. The woman’s glossy dark hair only made her eyes seem larger, doe like under thick lashes as she looked at the crowd watching her.

“Is that Liz?”

“That’s that Ortecho girl, isn’t it?”

“I thought she got _deported_?”

Cyd hopped once, trying to see over the sea of shoulders and bodies between her and the pair at the edge even as Gil pulled his hat off his head. Maggie glanced over at them and then back out at the reaction of the crowd. The simmering anger directed at the new girl seemed overwhelming. She glanced back at where Deputy Evans was reaching towards the girl, giving her a chance to escape when the music changed and Maria DeLuca came swirling out of the crowd with a shriek to wiggle at the new girl. There was a momentary pause and the bubble of tension burst, as the new girl- Liz, Maggie corrected- laughed and bounded to join Maria in a wild dance.

“What just happened?” Maggie asked, watching helplessly as Max Evans stared longingly at the pair, soft eyed and hopeful.

“That’s _Liz Ortecho_ ,” Cyd said, voice gone slightly awed as if the name explained everything.

“Okay?”

“Her sister is the girl who got super wasted and killed those girls right before graduation.” Gil put his cowboy hat back on, wetting his lips and glancing between Cyd and Maggie. “She left right after. Max has kind of been in love with her since grade school.”

“She’s pretty perfect,” Cyd sighed, wistful. “Smart, beautiful, and kind. She and Kyle were togeth-”

“Wait.” Maggie chopped through the conversation with a quick hand and stared them both quiet. “That’s the girl you compared yourself to all through high school? The one with the off again on again romance with Kyle Valenti? The one who dumped him on Prom Night? That one?”

They nodded.

“And Ma- Deputy Evans is in love with her?”

They nodded again.

Maggie inhaled slowly through her nose and stared up at the ceiling. The streamers glittered in the light smoothing over the space, the sparkling eddies of scattered color dancing around the disco ball. On each wall there was an endless repeating slideshow that seemed to prove that an eternity had passed, but also simultaneously showing that it had only been ten years. She sucked her teeth, tasting the prosecco that had given the pink punch its fizz. “Of course.”

Maggie Sones wasn’t very good at making friends, but she was even worse at having a crush on someone. She decided to pack it up into a very small box and tuck it away, glancing over her shoulder as Max and Isobel both stared over the crowd to where Liz Ortecho was dancing- fucking gracefully, of course- with Maria. She caught the moment Liz paused, giving Max the same soft eyed look that caught quivering between them, lifting hands in tandem to cover their hearts. It was so ridiculously romantic that Maggie had a flush of second hand embarrassment for them. She felt Cyd worm an arm around her waist and tuck against her in an easy hug.

“The worst part is,” Gil finally said as he flopped over her other side, chin resting on the top of her head. He might be taller than her, but he was all lean muscle and ribs. “She’s so nice you can’t hate her.”

“I can dislike anyone.” Maggie sniffed, turning away and leaning into the hug. “It’s my superpower.”

**  
Beam Me Up was a simple old town storefront with a bright yellow canopy and a blue door tucked between two large windows. There were a few tables outside, but most everyone waited until the sun went down to occupy them. The door opened to a glass fronted case filled with locally made pastries topped with a large pounded copper espresso machine that gurgled and chugged as the steamed milk pitchers sang a shrill note over the bustle. There were three handwritten chalkboards hanging above the small pass through window that led to the back, the swinging door rocking slightly in the breeze. The main room was divided by a bookshelf that held loose whole bean for bagging. The right side kept the to-go orders, the line for the cash register, and a few stools tucked under the hightop bar that pulled from the east wall to the west, divided only by the door. The logo shaded some of the view of the main square, the white veranda decorated with fading flowers. The left side was a cluster of mismatched tables and chairs with two overstuffed armchairs staring at each other over the small book littered coffee table. The two bathroom doors were just beyond.

“Hey Connor!” Cyd Gough always felt like this was her second home, the right hand chair waiting for her since freshman year of high school. Connor, the lanky quiet barista smiled at her, nodding his chin as he swirled the milk foam carefully on the extra large latte.

“Hey Cyd.” He wet his lips, concentrating on the milk foam drawing of a spaceship. “They’re already here. Long day?”

“The longest,” she widened her eyes, turning to smile brightly at him as she backed towards where Maggie and Gil were curled up in the chairs. Gil unfolded, moving to the nearest table to snag a sparkly vinyl dinner chair and flip it to straddle, folding his arms over the back. Cyd dropped her bag, her lab coat, and herself into the chair in that order. “It’s warm.” She smiled happily, curling her feet up and under her. Maggie pointed at the drink that seemed to be half caramel drizzle and half whipped cream.

“Your monstrosity.”

“Oh my god, you’re the best!” She snatched it up, curling around it like a contented dragon and licked the top of the pile of sweet. She kicked her clogs off, tucking her socked toes between the armrest and the cushion. She glanced over, catching the way both Maggie and Gil were looking at her expectantly. “What?”

“You’re two hours late?” Gil said, tucking his chin over his wrists. He was gawky, but handsome with large eyes and hawkish nose. He was too thin and she continued to work tirelessly with his mother to make sure he ate more often, but she’d also seen him put away two large Flying Saucer Pies without batting an eye. He always had a slightly ephemeral feel, like cottonwood fluff that would blow away with a wild bounce if she puffed at him too hard. He had messy black hair and thick black brows with a few freckles that stubbornly refused to fade from his tanned skin in the winter. She liked it best when he let his hair go a little too long, flopping around his face and starting to wave where he tucked it behind his ears. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt under an overly loud hawaiian shirt, khakis that he cuffed to just above his ankles, and neat well kept maroon boots.

“What did he make you do this time?” Maggie continued. She had reddish brown hair that was kept too short to curl, cut pixieish and wildly chic around her heart shaped face. She had one mole at the top of her right cheek, just under the bottom edge of her red frames. Her large pink earrings matched the bubble gum colored necklace that sat over her cream and polka dot blouse that was tucked into a wide green belt that was two shades darker than the straight skirt she was lounging in. Cyd had wondered if everyone from Chicago was as cool as her friend. She was forever impressed with the unabashedly cool fashion Maggie chose. Cyd wet her lips, shaking her head.

“I love that necklace.”

“I know. Don’t change the subject.”

Cyd looked around before exhaling and leaning close. “I don’t think Kyle remembers me.”

Maggie paused mid sip and moved to set her cup down. “Do I need to kill him?”

“That might be a bit excessive, Mags,” Gil muttered, but he’d straightened. “What happened?”

The chair creaked as Cyd rolled, careful not to spill her confectionary concoction and flopped her short legs over the arm, resting her back against the other. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just really distracted. I mean, if my ex started working at the hospital I-”

“You and I both know that Jacob couldn’t get a job in a hospital to save his life.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“He was worse, you’re right.”

“Anyway,” Maggie interrupted, waving them past their usual bickering about Jacob Lavin’s qualifications as a human being.

“He called me Cindy. But I mean, he must have been distracted. I’m sure he meant Cydney. Right? Like- he gave me these blood samples to run down to the lab, but that always takes like eight weeks and he seemed like he was in a hurry so I figured I’d do them myself.” Cyd shrugged, pausing to take a sip of her drink and licking the sweet off her top lip before continuing. “Well, he must have messed up the blood draw or something.” Cyd made a face. “The squamous epithelial cells were showing some really weird anomo-”

“English, Cyd. English.”

“The blood was sparkly.” She huffed a breath, frowning delicately for a moment as she remembered the strange way they’d seemed to shimmer under the microscope. “There must have been left over soap on the slide.”

“Sparkly?” Gil repeated into the lengthening pause. “That doesn’t seem right?”

“It was almost like they were holding some sort of electrostatic charge? But that’s like impossible really. I’d have to check against some stuff I read about types of plants, because-” Cyd shook her head, closing her eyes around a deep breath and exhaling a smile. “But, whatever. I got it finished and back to him. He grabbed me by my shoulders. I thought for a second he was going to hug me. I would have _died_.” She tilted her head, closing her eyes to relive the way Dr Valenti had paused in his quick stride to thank her with a simple squeeze before jogging to catch up to where Liz Ortecho was walking down the hall in incredible heels.

The other girl had looked stunning, black straight skirt pressed and that perfect shade of red that made her glow. Cyd had looked down at herself, the mint green scrubs covered in little alligators with heart eyes and a bit of something drying to the front. She scratched at it absently and sighed after the way Kyle and Liz seemed to fold together like holding hands.

“Do you think I should get some fancy scrubs?” she asked, changing the subject and scratching at the indeterminate stain again. “Like the good ones they use on Grey’s Anatomy?”

**  
“I swear to God they’re flirting.”

“They’re not flirting.”

“They _are_.” Maggie widened her eyes at the way Isobel Evans seemed to perk up tits first when Maria rolled her eyes at her from behind the bar. She looked even better than normal in candle light, wrap dress hugging her long lines and hair shimmering silvery gold in the warm glow. The official word was a lightning strike had taken out a city breaker. Everywhere was dark and it seemed unfair that Isobel Evans had chosen the day lit entirely by candle light to come to the local bar. Maggie narrowed her eyes at the blonde and frowned darkly at the sweet superior smile she was tossing absently at the patrons and corners. She’d almost packed up and left when she’d seen the woman saunter into the bar, but had settled when Cyd set a soft hand on her forearm.

“She won’t even notice us.”

“I can’t tell whether that is supposed to make me feel better or not.” Maggie watched where Isobel was snarling a smile and Maria was parrying with a quick chin tilt. Michael Guerin had pushed up from the bar when she’d settled in and Maggie didn’t miss the way Cyd’s eyes skidded around the lines of him before flinching from the over large belt buckle with a flush.

“I’m Mormon, not dead,” she muttered at Maggie’s pointed eyebrow.

“Might be time to get a tune up on the Fiesta?” She murmured, smile going wicked.

“It’s running just fine,” Cyd replied, wetting her lips and sipping her coke.

“Doesn’t need a lube job? Slide that mechanic right under the hood?”

Cyd flushed beautifully, the blotchy stain starting over her chest and crawling up her neck to color her cheeks and the tips of her ears. “Maggie!”

“Vroom vroom vroom let’s go back to my room-” Gil smothered his laugh with a hand and a disapproving look.

“Too much.”

Maggie nodded. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Cyd managed, voice gone a little squeaky. She glanced to the side. “Oh! She’s doing a palm reading!” She leaned forward, widening her eyes at them both. “Gil, go listen. I want to know. Go.”

“No.”

“Please? It’ll be fun?”

“No.”

“I need another whiskey and you need another beer?” Maggie pointed out, tipping her nearly empty glass at him. He was looking very buttoned up today, thick dark glasses and a pale blue plaid tucked into his jeans. He’d been dressing up slightly whenever they came to the Pony since he’d walked into a wall the first time he saw Alex Manes sitting under a blue lit booth in the back, laughing with his Air Force buddies.

He looked between them both, sighing heavily before he pushed up from the seat and started for the bar. “You owe me.”

Isobel Evans had passed out a moment after he made it to the bar, sprawling in an annoyingly elegant tangle on the floor. Michael Guerin had exploded into motion, dropping the pool cue as Maria DeLuca stared down at the blonde puddled on the floor. Maggie had been both surprised and proud when Cyd pushed into automatic motion as well.

The little redhead stopped Michael in his tracks where he was trying to sling Isobel up into his arms and she watched her argue with him until he let her take a quick pulse and look at her pupils. She watched Cyd frown darkly up at Guerin, hands moving to her hips as he spoke quickly. Isobel was rousing, blinking slowly and wiping loose fingers at her face.

“Fine.” She saw Cyd relent, frowning between the two, completely unafraid in emergency room nurse mode.

Michael nodded once at her and slung Isobel’s arm around his shoulders and walked her out as she stumbled blearily. Cyd watched them go, mouth a flat line of disapproval as she moved back to sit in the booth. “He’s going to drive her home.”

“What happened?”

“He said she was taking a medication that she wasn’t supposed to drink on.” Cyd frowned harder and shook her head. “I don’t know why people think they can go against basic doctor’s advice. It’s not hard. You’re taking medication? Don’t drink. Good gravy.”

“Did... did you just say _good gravy_?”

“I mean, it’s not like they went to medical school. They didn’t take organic chem or -” She cut off, shaking her head and Maggie made room for Gil in the booth.

“On the house for the hero of the moment,” Gil told them, sliding a fresh coke to Cyd.

“Oh, that’s a lot of caffeine, I don’t know if I should.” She pulled the straw and started drinking even as she finished protesting.

“Live a little. You just saved Isobel Evans’ life.” They touched glasses as Maggie lifted hers. “To Cyd, the little engine that could.”

After a long pause the bar settled back into its familiar rhythm in the dark, the candles flickering on each ledge. “Did you know there’s a school crossing sign on the ceiling?” Cyd made a face. “I think she stole it.”

**  
Maggie didn’t know Grant Greene. She didn’t know half of the people who had been standing around the canopy that had been erected to shade the mourners from the indiscriminate and unending sunshine of New Mexico. She didn’t know why she was there outside of the way Gil seemed deflated, shoulders hunched in under the slim line of his black suit. She hadn’t known that Cyd owned anything black. She didn’t like this version of Roswell. She didn’t like this version of her friends. She didn’t like that she didn’t understand. Sometimes the weight of their shared history tipped them away from her and she didn’t like how lonely it left her feeling.

Normally, she ran. Normally, she would let them tip and fall away from her and leave her to the words on the page, the weight of a book in her hand easier than the weight of not being a part of.

But she needed them. She needed them and simply reached out, taking Gil’s hand in hers and tugging him close, shoulder to shoulder as she collected Cyd up with her other hand. She’d never had friends before and the impossible reality of losing them to grief terrified her more than the fact that this man had been murdered in her new hometown.

And the fact that she considered Roswell New Mexico home.

“He was literally the worst boss I’d ever had,” Gil said, twisting the base of the milkshake with gentle fingers before sketching lines in the condensation. “He was always forgetting to come in to work so I’d just be stuck there all day.”

“You remember the time he asked you to lock up but you were in Santa Fe visiting your Uncle?”

“Oh my God! I came in to work the next day and all of the lights were still on, the curtains open on the ticket booth, and the front door unlocked.” Gil laughed, smile bright for a moment before he ducked his head. “I found him on the roof. He’d locked himself out up there with a radio antenna and some fireworks. I’m pretty sure he was tripping balls pretty hard.”

“That wasn’t the time you found him in his boxers yelling about aliens, right?”

“No, that was the first month after he bought the Emporium.” Gil pulled the straw out of his strawberry shake, licking at it thoughtfully. “He was extra weird that fir-”

“You’d only been working there like a year?”

“Less. Alex dipped out on his shifts and I took them over.”

Maggie blinked. “You and Alex Manes worked together?”

Gil blushed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Not... not really. I worked split shifts. So it was always like two ships passing in the night. He’d leave and I’d take over or he’d be off the day I was on.”

They were tucked into the second to last booth at the Crashdown Cafe. Gil always took the inside seat facing the door, Cyd clambering in next to him, which left Maggie across the table and sprawled across the opposite booth. She would usually be watching Ignacio, the blue eyed busboy, carefully wipe down all of the nearby tables with a single minded focus while he tried to smile at Cyd, but today he just stood behind the counter with a worried look on his face as the line cooks barked at each other in spanish. Arturo bustled around the cafe, taking orders before moving to cash out the first round of mourners.

“That was right after graduation and the whole-” he closed his mouth quickly, glanced around and then leaned in to whisper the next part. “Rosa thing. After the accident and all the dead girls, Alex just stopped showing up for work. Next I heard, he had shipped out to the Air Force Academy.” Gil shrugged. “So, I was working there full time over the summer and Grant bought the place. He was super fried that first year, like extra crispy on hallucinogens or something. He was always so jumpy and paranoid.”

“He asked me if I thought the Mormon church had been visited by Aliens and that’s what Joseph Smith had experienced.” Cyd blew out a breath, shaking her head at the sacrilege. “I assured him that I didn’t think Aliens were concerned with human religion.”

“She also started bringing him orange juice every time she visited.”

Maggie choked a little, blinking and turning expectant eyes on where Cyd had the grace to pink slightly. “Explain yourself, Gough.”

“Hesperidin,” she said simply, waving a hand like it was common knowledge. She paused, glancing between them both before continuing. “It’s a chemical isolated in orange juice that reduces the absorption of the antihypertensive drug celiprolol in the small intestines. It’s like naringin- not exactly, but more like these naringin like chemicals. They sort of block absorption of whatever drugs he was on.” She sipped her cherry coke before shrugging. “I was worried, okay?”

“Why do you know this?”

“I may be Mormon, but I’m not living in a cave, Maggie.” Cyd touched her hair, caught back in a modest little bun. Gil was unbuttoned in the booth, the black suit jacket gaping open and thin black tie askew. Cyd was wearing a simple black wrap dress that accentuated how tiny her waist was over neat black ballet flats. Maggie was wearing her black pear front cashmere cardigan buttoned up over neat pencil leg black capris and round toed flats. They were the most somber they had ever looked, matching in mourning. The table was a mess of half eaten fries, and the concentric circles where Cyd kept placing her drink down in overlapping rings. Maggie kept looking at the package that sat unopened in the center of the table.

“Point.” She smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine.” Cyd smiled at her and leaned forward to sip her soda. “It wasn’t the weirdest thing I ever saw at the UFO Emporium anyway.” She leaned back and against Gil’s shoulder without thought. Gil leaned his temple against her hair. The move was so unconscious that Maggie would have missed it, but she was aware of her small found family today.

“So what’s in the package?”

“I have no idea.” Gil wet his lips and knuckled his glasses up on his face. The package had been delivered in a nondescript brown box covered in glossy packing tape. His address had been written in black sharpie in neat block handwriting before being covered in a ridiculous amount of stamps. “It’s very Grant, though. He’s the only one I can think of that would make sending a package a production. I mean, who buys this many stamps instead of just paying postage at the post office?”

“He is ver- _was_ very dramatic.”

“I think anyone who ever heard him ranting into his microphone in the front booth would agree with that assessment.”

“Oh man, I’m going to miss listening to his podcast.”

“Wait, you actually listened to it?”

Cyd and Gil both leaned forward. “You didn’t?”

“No?”

“Oh, man, it was hilarious! I used to try to do a shot every time he said probe, but I got so wasted after the first one I can’t drink Jim Beam ever again.”

“You should never drink Jim Beam anyway, Gil.”

“Yeah,” Cyd agreed, widening her eyes at them both.

“You can take my drinking and my swearing from my cold dead fingers, Cyd.” Maggie muttered with all the heat of a long running joke. “That was a commentary on his taste you ridiculous teetotaler.”

“You like that you get to use the word teetotaler in conversation,” Cyd smiled back.

“I do. Makes me feel smart.”

“You are smart.”

“I moved to Roswell New Mexico on purpose.”

“Okay, fair point,” Gil conceded.

The conversation paused and another group of black clad mourners stood with a rumble of chairs. The jukebox picked that moment to pause between songs and everything in the Crashdown Cafe seemed simultaneously overly loud and stunningly quiet. Maggie glanced over the crowd, wetting her lips before turning back to the table and the mysterious brown package. She was trying to be patient. She could be patient. She totally didn’t read the last chapter of a mystery first before reading the book.

The box sat silently in the center of the table. It waited.

“ _What’s in the box?_ ” Maggie quoted, gesturing wildly to the package. “What’s in the _box_?” She paused mid impression to look at Cyd. “R rated movie called Seven starring Brad Pitt that you will never see, just know that this reference is a fucking gift, okay?”

“Got it,” Cyd replied seriously.

“What’s in the box?” Maggie hissed, curiosity making her antsy.

Gil sighed, pulling it close and starting to cut at the tape with the slightly serrated butter knife. Maggie was fascinated, joined by Cyd as they watched Gil opening the post like a finicky kid on Christmas. He was cutting carefully along the seams like he would be able to peel it open, but instead just flipped the lid out and plucked the crumbled paper packing from on top of a smaller box. He lifted it out and it took a moment to recognize the white sleeve of a VHS tape that was neatly labeled with the date of Rosa Ortecho’s death and a small neon green post it note.

_If you're reading this I'm dead. Know this: Nothing is an accident. Trust no one. If they come for you too, remember that it's better to tell the truth and have no one believe than lie and be heard. People who talk end up dead. Unless you talk so loudly it turns into noise. Be careful. I didn't have anyone else. -GG_

“Um.”

“I swear to god if this is a homemade porno I will throw things.”

**  
Gil didn’t particularly like his job, but he liked that he was left alone for long periods of time in an airconditioned room with access to both music and the internet. He stumbled into the archivist position with the Chavez County Clerk of Courts by simply not quitting his summer job after two semesters at Chavez County Community College. He'd intended to take the basic pre-reqs and then transfer out to UNM or some other four year, but his Father broke his foot. His father was a short broad man with knotted calves and scars on his hands from years of yard work. He'd landed the city contract, working with the beautification committee and making the solid government money. Jorge Angulo wasn't one for either sitting around or not working.

Gil wishes he could say he kept the summer job to help pay for the family medical bills, but his father was deeply insured and his mother was a retired nurse. He kept the job so he had a reason to not be home.

His house was always cluttered, busy with people and languages. He had shared a room most of his life and was thrilled to be making enough money that he might be able to save enough for a security deposit and a one bedroom at the Arrowhead Apartment complex just off the byway. It had a pool.

Cyd bought him a candle that smelled like cedar covered lumberjack fantasies and a box of homemade caramels wrapped in wax paper when he'd moved in. He hadn't intended to stay. He hadn't intended to stay in Roswell, but ten years later he had painted the walls and curated a carefully neutral bachelor pad that was sparsely minimal and annotated with clusters of books and candles. He didn't want a dog. He didn't want a cat.

He did want a boyfriend. Maggie had a way of referring to her exes the way some people did wayward pets, so he wasn't entirely convinced that a boyfriend was a good idea.

Gil lived a simple life filled with fantasy and fabulous scarves. Every thursday he met Maggie at the Wild Pony for Ranchero night. The music was terrible. Hank was only just now starting to understand that music didn’t need intense guitar solos in every break. Maggie would sip her whiskey and watch the locals with a vague look of mixed horror and disdain while Gil found himself watching Michael Guerin sling himself around the bar like his hips were made of some kind of liquid. Even Maggie would make aggrieved noises when she’d glance over and Michael was stretched across the pool table, curls akimbo and thick thighs tight in the grease smeared denim. Michael Guerin would set his chin over folded hands on the tip of his cue stick and grin at his opponents and Gil was really really really gay.

He secretly bailed Guerin out the night he broke a cue stick over Wyatt Long’s ribs. Michael had reacted before Gil could even be insulted when Wyatt sneered the word faggot. The noise of the stick breaking a sudden clap between songs on the jukebox. Wyatt had stumbled forward. The way the stick had been thrown down lost as the next song started up, the beat frenetic and in tempo with the way Wyatt rounded on Guerin and Gil had ducked under the table when they crashed together with the sound of breaking glass and breaking bones. Michael had been wildly drunk that night, taking a hit like taking a slap and grinning around bloody teeth. Gil wasn’t sure who had been more surprised: him or Wyatt.

Deputy Evans had wet his lips, watching Gilbert curiously as he filled the paperwork and slid his card across the table. “I’ll let him dry out a little before I let him leave.”

Gil nodded, flushing and signed the slip release. “Just make sure he doesn’t drive, okay?”

“Can do,” Max had replied, voice low and sure. Gil wondered if he still read. They’d spoken once, briefly, in high school about the idea of an open mic night in Santa Fe. Gilbert wanted to get out of Roswell and Max had been in love with the idea of words.

Tuesdays he watched the newest trashy CW show about vampires because one of them had the look that sweetly dovetailed into what he thought must be his type: black haired and sassy. Gil wasn't particularly picky, but he did have at least two standards.

Cyd blamed Alex Manes for them both. Gil knew better than to argue with her. She was smarter than him. Hell, he was convinced she was smarter than almost everyone but kept herself small to maintain the possibility of a husband just returned from Mission and moving up in the ranks of the Church. He didn't understand Mormonism, but they did make fucking divine caramels and his best friend seemed happy. He told himself that was the important part. She didn't judge him or pray for him or try to change him. She did question some of his fashion choices; he succinctly reached to touch the hem of her orange scrubs covered in candy corn and pumpkins.

"It's not even October, Cyd."

"Fall is an _aesthetic_ , not a season, Gil."

"I didn't teach her that," Maggie interjected, not looking up from her phone.

“There’s this whole world out there on computers!” Cyd widened her eyes and dropped her mouth open in a mockery of dazzled innocence. “Can you believe it?”

Maggie glanced up with a snort and pointed around the edge of her phone. “I _did_ teach her that.”

“Sarcasm?” Gil made a face at them both. “I do not approve.”

He wished they were here now, but he also didn’t want his two best friends to be overtly intimidated by two men in military uniforms who were staring over the counter in the archives office at him.

The main office was a small box lobby with a beige counter that was just over waist high. There were three plastic blue chairs that were almost always empty sitting along the front window, the slatted blinds rattling in time with the air conditioning. The front computer was there with a large format copying machine that acted as a fax as well. Behind the counter was a wall that was primarily window, special density and tinted to protect the files in the back. The main archive was nearly 10,000 square feet of warehouse space filled with racks of boxes and a side storage closet that kept every type of gadget and electronic imaginable. Gil had rolled the TV/VCR combo out of storage and sat on the battered beige couch in the lounge area. He’d been about to eat his lunch, the burrito salad sitting on the coffee table untouched as he stared at the bodies of three girls float through the desert at night. The camera had been steady, panning across the desert at night like it was being held professionally and then gone shaky and scared the moment the focus had found the corpses.

He knew they were corpses because he knew those girls. Rosa Ortecho had been brash and brassy, dark haired and wild in her boots and flannels. Gil remembered thinking she was unbelievably cool whenever he would pass her smoking in the back parking lot as he tried to hide in his bright colored marching band uniform, trumpet tucked under his arm. Kate and Jasmine had been a matched set of bitches, but he wasn’t going to talk shit about the dead.

The door buzzer had startled him out of his third rewatch, flailing to his feet and unplugging the entire set up instead of simply pausing it in his panic. He’d rounded the corner, stuttering to a stop at the sight of two sharp faced men in the scrub colored camouflage, soft suede sided boots laced high and tight.

“Can-can I help you?”

The older man turned, pale blue eyes cold in his face. Gil felt the way the man took him in with one easy sweep from head to toe. He felt judged and found wanting. Gil straightened and flattened his mouth, looking back with the same intensity. The older man looked tired, expectant, and affably deadly. “Gilbert Angulo?”

Gil pointed to his name tag, looking between the two. He recognized them after a moment, eyes going wide. He’d seen Jesse Manes in parades and various fundraising functions about town he was required to attend. His son, Harlan Manes, had been a football phenomenon two years out of school by the time Gil moved into the high school. Harlan had only been ousted in the last year by the other Manes brother, Hunter. He recognized Harlan by the hawkish nose and hooded eyes that matched his father in shape but not tone. They both turned, focusing in on him as Gil realized he couldn’t take a step back, wall behind him pressed tight.

“It’s come to our attention that Grant Greene may have contacted you prior to his death.” Jesse Manes was looking around the office before turning that blue gaze back to Gil. “I don’t have the patience for a denial, son.”

“Did he mention a video?” Harlan’s voice was lower, similar timbre to Alex and Gil idly wondered if he could sing too. Harlan was an inch taller than his father with black hair and sharp cheekbones. He had a long scar that cut through his right eyebrow and a dead look to his dark eyes.

“Video?”

Jesse Manes sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and waving his son forward. Harlan moved without question, putting a light hand on the counter and hopping it effortlessly. He brushed past Gil and through the door to the back as Jesse kept his gaze unblinking on where Gil was starting to puddle into panic. “I’m going to say this once. You will not speak of anything you have seen today. You will not discuss the contents of the video with anyone. You will not, in any way, bring attention to the events of that night.” He cocked his head, thumbing over his eyebrow before reaching to lay a scarred hand on the counter, cracking his knuckles one at a time with a thoughtless grace.

Harlan pushed back out the door, holding up the VHS tape that Gil had been watching. He cocked a silent question at his father, paused next to where Gil was plastered back against the wall. “I thought he was crazy,” Gil managed, voice breaking in a fear tight throat.

“He was.” Harlan sniffed. “Better to be crazy than believed, don’t you agree?”

Gil started nodding, heart hammering around his chest and throbbing in his wrists. “Yeah. Yeah, yes? Yes, sir?”

Harlan smiled sharp, like a knife edge and tapped the corner of the VHS tape against Gil’s chest. “Good.” He walked from behind the desk this time, plucking a pen and tucking it into the front pocket of his ABU’s. Jesse Manes didn’t look from where he’d skewered Gil to the wall.

“I’d prefer not to come back or have this conversation again.” Jesse Manes smiled, quick and easy like they’d finished catching up on small talk. “Have a good day, Gilbert Angulo.” He paused. “I know where you live. Where you work. Who your family is. Who your friends are. I know where you drink and I know what perversions you indulge in. I know how to make you disappear. I’d prefer... to not have to take those sorts of measures. Understood?” He glanced over his shoulder, paused at the door like he was commenting on the weather and not murdering Gil violently.

“Yes. Yes, sir.” Gil swallowed, eyes welling and he hated that he was shaking, stuck to the wall and watching this man nod once. Jesse Manes didn’t have to raise his voice or his hands. Gil was already terrified.

**  
“Okay,” Cyd started, nodding a few times as she took back the paperwork clipboard and glanced up at Noah Bracken. He was tall and lean, stunningly handsome in that romance novel way. He had thick black hair, a patrician nose, full mouth, and a kind smile. Cyd thought he and Isobel looked like the kind of couple that came with the picture frame- impossibly perfect with toothpaste commercial smiles. “You know the visiting hours, but there will be times on this kind of hold that they’ll be restricted.”

“She’s going to be okay?” He kept glancing down the hall, wetting his lips and running his fingers through his hair. He looked distracted and rumpled, off center and worried.

“Our staff is very capable,” Cyd assured him with a small warm smile. He glanced at her and nodded once, hair starting to fall out of the natural looking wave to slip over his forehead. “Dr Valenti is one of the best. He promised her brother to keep a close eye on her himself.”

“Max was already here?”

“He helped check her in,” Cyd managed, a little thrown by the slight hiss of anger under the words.

“And I’m guessing Michael Guerin was along with them?”

“Oh. Um. I can’t really answer that?” Cyd chewed at her bottom lip, glancing down and busying herself with the visitor ID card. She’d heard the rumors, but had never put much stock in them. The two seemed too mismatched to have any real connection and Noah Bracken was a successful philanthropic lawyer with kind eyes and gentle hands. “But,” she shook her head slightly, glancing around to make sure no one was looking. She knew which she would prefer. “This is your ID badge,” she decided instead, continuing around the question. “You’ll need to wear it at all times and the barcode scans at the doors for entrance.”

“I’m her husband,” Noah told her, frowning. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

It was rhetorical. Cydney had gotten better at recognizing that over the years. She fiddled with the ID badge before standing and ducking to catch his eyes. She smiled, holding the badge out- the picture was grainy and pixelated but easily recognizable as him. He wore a gray button up with a slightly darker cardigan that looked soft. He was always well dressed, simple and lovely. “It means, if she’s smart,” Cyd started, she wanted to reach out and straighten his hair, to show him that everything would work out- that it would be fine and he would get his wife back very soon. “Which we all know she is,” she continued, deciding to reach and clip the badge to his shirt carefully, patting it once and looking up. “That she married you for a reason.”

“I need her,” Noah told her.

“Tell her that.” Cyd shrugged. “It’s nice to be needed.”

Noah Bracken smiled at her, eyes focusing on her for a brief moment before he tapped long fingers on the counter between them. “Thank you...?”

“Nurse Gough. Cydney. Cyd.” She felt her ears go hot, biting her bottom lip and rolling her eyes at herself. “Nurse Gough is fine.”

“Thank you, Cyd.” He winked at her, settling into himself and setting aside the worry. “I just know what can happen to a family when something goes wrong, you know?”

“You guys seem too perfect to have problems,” Cyd said, covering her mouth and sighing at herself. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”

“We have problems.” He wet his lips and ducked his head. He looked so in love, so bashful, and Cyd had to stop herself from covering his hand with her own. “It’s almost like we’re human, you know?” He gave her a brave smile, flexible and sweet. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

“Promise.”

“Thank you,” Noah replied, covering her hand with his and giving a quick squeeze. His fingers were warm and dry and Cyd touched her hair quickly, skin prickling hotly. “I’m sure we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

Cyd felt a little dizzy, watching him with wide eyes. He seemed to look into her with that warm brown gaze. She felt pinned by it, stilled by the weight. “Yeah,” she heard herself breathe, like she was watching herself down a hallway instead of present in her skin. “I’d like that.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Noah said after a pause that had Cyd shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She was embarrassed that she’d let herself drift into thought while talking to him and ducked her head. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Bye.” Cyd wasn’t entirely sure what she did for the next three hours, but she was sure she was doing something important, the warm feel of Noah Bracken’s smile still on her skin.

**  
Deputy Max Evans had the audacity to smell good. He smelled like something warm and musky with notes of pine and citrus. It was spicy and utterly male. It seemed oddly expensive. Maggie Sones knew this because he was currently leaning over her shoulder where she was sitting at the bank of computers to point at one of the results of the reverse image search.

“There!” He leaned forward and she could feel the heat of him against her shoulder. She should move, but if she turned her head she would probably end up smearing her mouth against his jaw. He was so close.

“Told you it would work,” she managed, instead. It was difficult to remember to be sassy when she had six foot something of hot literary nerd pressed against her. She sniffed, clearing her throat and hoping he wouldn’t notice. He was scribbling the information in his oddly lovely handwriting, looping and leaning slightly to the left. The Deputy had perfect penmanship and a low voice. He was stupid and she hated him even as her chest went tight and she focused on taking a long easy breath. “You can-” Maggie steeled herself and leaned away so she could turn and arch an eyebrow at him. “You can just _print_ the flyer.”

“That... would be the smart thing to do.” He laughed and Maggie wanted to throw things.

Deputy Evans had strolled into her library with a sketch and a question. Maggie was used to seeing him in fifteen minute increments on Mondays after 7pm. He would take his white cowboy hat off as soon as he entered the library. She liked that, liked that the books were sacred and special to him- a place of reverie. He kept it tucked against his chest as he walked, drumming his fingers against it as he walked to where she sat. It was Wednesday, though. He didn’t come on Wednesdays. She’d given him a pass this Tuesday since she’d heard that his bitchy sister was in the hospital.

“Hey,” he drawled, wetting his lips and ducking like he was sharing a secret. Maggie tried not to get distracted wondering where he’d gotten the lickable scar on the side of his neck. He tossed her a crooked careful smile. “Was wondering if you could help me with something?”

Maggie felt like she’d been waiting her whole life for those words and instead of choking and falling into the standard fantasy that started just like this, she simply nodded. “Depends. Does it involve burying a body? Because I hate to break it to you, Deputy, but that’s _very_ illegal.”

“No bodies.” He quirked the corner of his mouth and Maggie just stared. “Just hoping you can maybe help me track down a symbol.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and smoothed it out on the reference desk. It was hand drawn with a triangle in the center stretching to three circles. It looked like a kid’s version of Gallifreyan. Which, she was very proud of herself for not saying aloud. “I need to find out more about this symbol.”

“Have you done a reverse image search yet?” Maggie tugged the paper out from under his fingers and spun it to look at the image more closely. The pause stretched and she glanced up, quirking her eyebrows at the pitifully self flagellating look he had on his face. “No? Really? Okay, well. Let’s... let’s just start with that, okay?”

Twenty minutes later Maggie had scanned the image, cleaned it up, and started the search. Max was on his phone for most of the leg work so she took a moment to fire off a quick text to Gil and Cyd asking them to meet her at the Pony that night. She needed whiskey. She needed a lot of whiskey. She was narrating the steps as she went, a habit picked up from working with both the elderly and ridiculous boomers who would loudly yell for help. She didn’t have to teach the kids, they understood the technology implicitly. She reached up, grabbing Max by the chin and turning his head to the screen when the results appeared.

“That looks like an event flyer,” Maggie muttered, peering closer and wishing she’d worn her wide framed pink Warby’s instead of the simple gold wire rims. “For a.. Oh god.” She turned and saw his eyes widen at the same line she’d just read. “It’s a fucking faith healer. Are you sure?”

Max palmed his hair back from his forehead and Maggie had the irrational urge to yell at him. He pushed onto straight arms and looked over at her, arching an eyebrow. “Guess I’m going to go to any length.”

“Right. Of course you are. Fucking white hat hero.” Max gave her a wildly amused look and Maggie thought she might just explode. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“I don’t think it’s against the law to sass an off duty officer.”

“I could look up the local ordinance for reference if you want.” Maggie could feel the relieved smile on her face, the shape of it almost embarrassing. “You know, for science.”

“Just the flyer, Ma’am.” He winked and Maggie felt all her good charity toward him disappear in a stunning flush of heat.

**  
Maggie was starting to think that maybe they shouldn’t be day drinking at the Wild Pony when all Gil was able to do was stare at the back of Alex Manes’ head. He’d been quieter than usual lately, subdued. She hadn’t seen him dressing like the feral scarf wearing hipster he was in almost a month. She was getting very tired of his collection of typical plaids. She missed the white button downs with tiny embroidered pizzas. She missed the hawaiian shirts and the mess of his hair. He was looking nearly straight and that was obviously unacceptable. Maggie decided the moment he showed up in a Carharrt was the moment she was staging an intervention.

“You could just walk over and say hi,” she said, picking up her glass of Jameson and sipping once.

“The last time we spoke I saluted him.” Gilbert didn’t even blink, just sipped his beer and continued to watch where Alex and Maria DeLuca were talking at the bar.

“You did not.”

Gil simply rolled his eyes so hard he put his head down on the table top of their booth. She hadn’t picked the one as far away from where Max Evans was sprawled on purpose. She really hadn’t, but she did find herself watching the way he was rereading the printed flyer. “He was looking up information about Foster Ranch and some of the early deed acquisitions by the Air Force in...” He trailed off. “I swear I’m not a stalker.”

“Why? Because you memorized his search history?” Maggie made a face. “Why on earth would anyone think that’s stalkery?”

Gil leveled her a flat look from the corner of his eye and resumed watching Alex talk. “I wanted to fall through the floor and not come out until he was gone, but instead he just gave me this face. You know, like that one where someone is amused and pitying at the same time?”

“Yeah, I know those faces.” Maggie didn’t comment on the one she’d gotten earlier that day from Max Evans. “Usually, I’m making them.”

“Exactly!” Gil turned, wetting his lips and leaned across the table slightly, booth seat squeaking under his weight. “I’m supposed to be the smartly snarky one. It’s my thing. And here I am fucking saluting the hot Air Force Captain.”

“He probably liked it.”

“You are the worst friend I have ever had.”

“Everyone is the worst friend in comparison to Cyd. She makes homemade caramel.”

“True.”

“Hey!” There was a scrape of chair and they glanced over, catching the moment Michael Guerin caught Alex Manes by the elbow, spinning him as they spoke. “This really how it ends?” They were halfway across the bar, but Maggie let herself enjoy the sight of Guerin in a double denim number that stretched over his shoulders and hugged his ass. She had to strain to hear what he was saying, watching idly as he leaned close to Alex. “The sex was epic.”

“Holy fuckballs.” She almost missed the startled noise Gil made, but only because she’d slapped a hand over her own mouth. They looked down sharply when Alex glanced around the bar and then back to Michael.

“So shouldn't the breakup involve some pyrotechnics? Scream? Break some stuff?" Maggie and Gil had made the silent and completely mutual decision to lean closer together to watch the completely improbable public fight that was happening. "Really make it _feel_ over."

“I thought he was straight?” Maggie hissed, thinking of the string of women she’d seen him wander out of the bar with over the years.

“Bisexuals exist, Maggie. Shush.”

Alex Manes seemed to forget for a moment that they were standing in the middle of a crowded bar. He steeled, narrowing his eyes and pushing close with a look that Maggie knew was filled with contempt and superiority. She also knew from experience that it was a look that only came when someone was trying very hard not to feel. “Sometimes the world ends with a whimper, Guerin."

There was a pause and Alex turned, walking away. Maggie couldn’t stand to watch the devastated look that flickered over Michael’s face, hidden a moment later as he turned and smeared a pretend ease over his face and ponied up to the bar.

“Did he just call Michael Guerin his world?”

“Oh my god they were _fucking_.”

“Text Cyd,” Maggie managed.

“Already on it. Holy shit.” Gil paused, flushing hotly and staring over at where Michael Guerin was grinning up at Maria DeLuca fondly. “ _Holy shit._ ”

One hour forty minutes, three beers, and two whiskeys later Cyd came rushing into the bar, stumbling slightly and bouncing off a few people in her haste. She tossed herself into the booth bag first, hair wild and coming out of the side braid as she panted at them. “I ran.”

“I see that.”

“Did they really-”

“Right fucking _there_! In the middle of the floor in front of God and everyone.” Maggie felt flushed, grin gone wreckless now that Michael Guerin and Max Evans had left the bar together. She could drink in peace, undisturbed by Max Evan’s floppy brown hair and Michael Guerin’s everything.

“That’s so wild! I mean, I knew about Alex.”

“Everyone knew about Alex.”

“But Guerin?”

“God, how does this make him sexier?”

“He’s broken?”

“Oh, wait, I thought Alex was the broken heart.”

“Well, I mean, I think he was, but it was definitely him breaking up with Michael.”

“That’s so wild. Why would you break up with Michael Guer-”

“His dad threatened me.” Gil heard himself interrupt.

“I thought you guys said he was an orphan?”

“Not Michael,” Gil managed, startled and quiet at the sudden admission. “Jesse Manes. Alex’s Dad.”

The Wild Pony had barely changed since he’d snuck in for the first time at 17. He’d slid along the wall to the entrance, wide eyed and simmering with a low level panic. He’d slid into a booth and found himself hoping that maybe the door would open and Brendan Urie would improbably wander in, taking a breath and falling hopelessly in love, but he would settle for someone named Nick or Dan or Steven who wanted to kiss him. Instead, he’d had enough Sprite to need to pee thirteen times and left before he spoke to anyone. Gil had driven his brother’s borrowed hatchback home and slipped back into the endless bustle of his large family.

Gil had thought he’d been subjected to a difficult life because he was gay. He’d thought that he’d be forced into a life of near celibacy and bottled desires until he’d watched Alex Manes lift his chin and face the high school hallways. He’d swallowed around the hero worship as Alex hit back. He’d wanted to say something. He’d wanted to say anything but simply fell into mark time with the rest of the brass section during football games and turned his eyes away from the bruises, the casts, and the black eyes. Gilbert wasn’t proud; he was scared.

He was tired of feeling like the world was a threat.

“Something really fucked up is happening in Roswell,” he said, voice barely above a whisper like his courage would fail, like it would be swallowed back down like a lump of tears in his throat to keep him small. He frowned darkly at the table and lifted his chin. “Something is wrong and we have to do something.”

“Isobel almost died.” Cyd made a concerned face, brows drawing together with a small crease between them. “There’s the sparkly blood.”

“Max is going to a faith healer.” Maggie shrugged. “He was researching this symbol that he has tattooed on his shoulder.”

“I think someone murdered Rosa and those girls or _something_ did.”

There’s a pause in the music and Maggie looked at her friends. The clatter of pool and the constant murmur of voices clattered back to life when the music started thumping again. “Guys, what the _fuck_ is going on in this town?”

**  
Seven weeks later they were standing outside the boarded up entrance to the Turquoise mines that sat fifteen miles outside of town past the furthest edge of the Foster Dairy Ranch. It was the middle of the day and they were squinting at the faded silvering boards, the scrub clung to the sides of the ravine, rocks piled up on the right hand side and sloping more gently on the left.

“This really doesn’t look safe,” Cyd whispered, holding on to Maggie’s forearm as she glanced around. “The paperwork said it caved in.”

Gil had found the old deeds showing the full extent of the Foster Ranch in 1947. It had included another 100 acres that expanded due west and folded the turquoise mines into its sprawl. “The paperwork also said there wasn’t a bunker built under the closed military base, but we saw the receipts and construction contracts.”

“This isn’t far from where the kids were found wandering according to that one article,” Maggie interjected. “It’s not far to walk straight down this gulch and out to the road.” She was banging a flashlight against her thigh. “It’s popular with the kind of long range truckers that are hauling from texas to the interior. Seems to me like this is the most likely place they emerged from.”

“Do we want to do this?” Cyd exhaled. She’d been keeping a closer eye on the project Liz and Kyle had been working on. She made sure to clean up after them, dropping any extraneous samples in the incinerator. “I mean, we don’t know what’s in there.”

“We know something is there.”

“Maybe it’s just turquoise?”

“Maybe.” Maggie tapped the flashlight one more time, decisive as she started forward. “Better to know than not, right?”

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Cyd muttered, reaching out and grabbing the back of Maggie’s coat as she followed.

Gil glanced down at his phone, checking the battery before pulling up the original map of the mine and ducking into the dark. Maggie’s flashlight kept a perfect circle of light flooding ahead of them as they moved carefully through the initial passageway. The entrance was reinforced with old timber and covered in graffiti that tempered out and flaked in the cool dry air. Maggie was pointing the flashlight at the ground, swinging the beam from side to side like she was looking for something in the dusty floor. “What are you doing? You’re going to give me a seizure or something.”

“Looking for footprints.”

“Will that work?”

“That’s actually a good idea.” Cyd had pulled a second smaller flashlight out of her purse, clicking it on and pointing it further down the initial passage to where it started branching. Twenty minutes of searching and they found a small tertiary passage off the fourth fork to the left that had a distinct set of footprints visible. They stared at it for a moment before simply turning and starting to creep along the narrow crevice that slotted open after a tight squeeze. The room opened in front of them and the beam of their combined flashlights stilled on three glowing pods that sat in the center of the cavern.

“Oh.My. God.”

Cyd snorted, gasping a laugh and clapping both hands over her mouth as she shook. Gil and Maggie turned, looking at her and she tossed them a helpless look, taking a slow deep breath before cracking into giggles again. “I’m sorry. It’s just.” She waved a hand at the glowing pods and Maggie took a few steps forward.

“I think...” She paused, peering at the center of the three pods and what appeared to be a body floating naked inside. “Fuck. That’s. Well, fuck.”

“What, Maggie?” Gil tucked his phone into his back pocket, easing forward and noting the pile of books and blankets along the curved cave wall. There was a folding lawn chair and a small plastic grocery bag with an empty lunchables box next to a lantern that was turned off.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Isobel Evans.”

Cyd choked another wild laugh, waving at them both. “Guys.” She took a shaking breath. “You’re always saying she was too perfect to be real.” She blinked at the blank stares that Maggie and Gil were giving her before shrugging. “Too soon?”

**

“Aliens?”

“All things being equal,” Cyd answered, tucked into the booth at the Crashdown and talking earnestly across the table at Maggie and Gil. “The easiest answer is usually the right answer.”

“Did you just quote Contact at me?”

“It’s Occam’s Razor.”

“It’s a fucking Jodie Foster movie about aliens, Cyd.” Maggie was glaring at the table like it had personally offended her. Gilbert was staring out the window, still shell shocked from the revelation in the desert.

“Whatever. I say it’s aliens. This is _Roswell_. The town ha-”

“Have I told you about my grandfather?” Arturo Ortecho flipped open his order pad, headband with antenna on long springs cutting through his salt and pepper hair. Maggie had liked him instantly, the feel and shape of him oddly familiar and familial. He plucked a pen and clicked the alien head top and tipped both eyebrows at them for their order. “Nineteen months-”

“I thought it was seventeen?” Gil interrupted with a small smile.

“That’s when it’s a girl. Boys, we take longer.” He tapped the pen to his temple knowingly. “You doing your usual today?”

“I don’t think today is the day for rash changes,” Maggie muttered, rubbing at her eyes under her glasses.

“The usual is perfect, Mr Ortecho,” Cyd smiled, genuine and wide.

“Arturo. I keep telling you it’s Arturo.”

“Right, my mistake, Mr Ortecho.” She took the straw he dropped on the table, carefully peeling the tip away and tugging it low enough to twist the opposite end into a point.

Arturo shook his head and mock flinched at the straw wrapper that veered wildly from her target, Gil, to pop off the red flannel on his chest and float to the floor. “Your aim is still terrible.” He bent, snagging the wrapper off the floor and nodded at the back booth that had sat themselves.

The silence settled hard over the table once he walked off, talking loudly in spanish to the new guests. Maggie was staring at her fingers, they still had some of the red dirt of the desert smeared on a knuckle. It was one thing to do research about the unexplained in Roswell. It had felt invasive but necessary to start digging deeper into the disappearances and deaths. She’d found the article about the three children found by a trucker on accident, following a wikipedia rabbit hole about the strange migratory patterns of a specific type of mosquito that had descended upon Roswell just after the rainy season this year. The three mug shots had startled her silent, staring at the small children who stared back from the microfiche.

“So, Michael is their... brother? Not just the weird friend who showed up sometime in 6th grade?”

Cyd was watching Isobel float in the glow of the pod, her hair billowing like she was suspended in liquid and eyes closed. She looked almost asleep, eyes closed and chest unmoving. “They were really close. Like there were rumors about them being a thing, but now? I just don’t understand how they didn’t all get adopted together?”

“Have you met Ann Evans?” Gil made a face, setting the book back down where he’d picked it up. Maggie recognized the library book that Max had checked out last week just under it.

“Are we not going to talk about the fact that Isobel Evans is just-”

“No, because it’s too weird. It’s too weird and I want to ignore it. I want to pretend I don’t know.” Maggie blew out a breath. “You guys might be from here, but I’m not. The weirdest thing that’s happened to me is the president and maybe a missed item on my uber eats order.” She tucked her arms tighter around herself and stared ahead at the glowing pods. “This is seriously fucked. Seriously, seriously, _fucked_.”

She paused, chewing on the edge of her thumbnail. Cyd had turned away from the pod, tugging on the end of her braid as she looked to where Gil was standing next to the folding lawn chair. Maggie looked between them and the glowing pods. She looked at the stack of library books. It felt like love in neat little piles. It felt like someone who missed their family. It felt familiar, like longing. Maggie knew what it felt like to miss home. She knew what it felt like to wait for someone to come home. She knew the feeling inside out. It felt like worry. She’d grown up mistaking worry for love. She didn’t want to worry, not this time. Not for them, not for her friends. She was tired of sleepless nights tossing and turning. She was tired.

“We have to help them. This was too easy. This was way too easy to track down. They’re going to get caught and then Jesse Manes is going to kill people and I can’t. I legit cannot have that on my conscious.”

“What are we supposed to do against the _army_ -”

“Air Force,” Cyd corrected quietly.

“Air Force, whatever,” Gil threw his arms out. “They know where I live, guys. He was _very_ specific in his threats. _Very_.”

“They’re sloppy,” Maggie replied. “They’re going to get caught. We can... we can buffer it?”

“I mean, we’re sort of already doing it.” Cyd wet her lips. “I’m pretty sure Kyle and Liz are in too deep.”

“They’re going to miss something and that’s going to put us in danger. We know now. We have a responsibility.”

“I don’t want it.” Gil blew out a breath. “Can’t we just get flashy thinged?”

“I don’t think the Men in Black are as witty as Will Smith in real life, Gil. I think you met them already and they’re-”

“Fucking terrifying. That’s the phrase you’re looking for.”

“Right.” Maggie took a half step closer to where Cyd was looking tiny and fragile, jaw determined and eyes hard. “We protect them to protect what is really important.” She blew out a breath and gestured between her friends- her only friends. “You guys.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Gilbert muttered, swallowing and pulling his hair again. It was starting to halo around his head in pomade spikes.

“Well, I think we’ve established that those are the only ideas I have.” She sniffed, letting Cyd take her hand and squeezing through the rush of panic. “I moved here voluntarily, remember?”

Now, she stretched her hands flat on the table top and stared at the dirt under her nails, the smear of it on her skin. “We need a cover. A big one.”

“What are we? Spies? How do we make a cover story?”

“I can dye my hair?”

“No.” Gil and Maggie agreed on that volubly. She gave him a small smile as Cyd slumped back and sighed.

“What about...?” She trailed off, stuck. Her water was dripping, condensation pooling under the base and she sketched quick lines in the wet.

“Here you go,” Arturo Ortecho stopped at the edge of the table with three plates balanced in his left hand and a basket of tater tots in his right. “I have an UnEggsplained Breakfast plate with two saucer patties, over easy eggs, and hash brownouts.” He set the plate in front of Gil after dropping the basket of tater tots in front of Cyd. “UFOmelette with no onion or mushroom for you.” Maggie took the plate. Arturo smiled brightly as he dropped the last plate in front of Cyd. “Cosmic cakes extra chips and whip. Anything else?”

Maggie paused, looking around before answering to make sure she wasn’t accidentally forgetting anything. “No, we’re good. Thank you.” She blew out a breath. “Maybe we just say it was aliens? Like just start telling people the truth?”

“What, like the truth is out there?” Gil snorted.

“I haven’t heard that since the funeral,” Arturo said, looking between them. “It’s been so quiet here. This was his booth, you know?”

“Who-”

“Greene.” Arturo cocked his head putting his hands on his hips. He was a compact barrel chested man with kind eyes and a ready laugh. His accent had eased over the years to nearly non existent. “He would record his podcast here. I didn’t mind. He didn’t yell much and it was entertaining. I did not think I would miss that part.” He ducked his head, saying a quick prayer in spanish before looking up again.

“Right, his podcast.” Gilbert nodded and reached to grab the pitcher of syrup from the condiment caddy tucked against the wall under the window.

Cyd’s eyes widened. “Guys. His _podcast_.”

Gil started to smile, looking between them before opening his mouth, voice a pretty purr. “Welcome to Roswell New Mexico, where the ordinary _is_ the extraordinary.”


	2. Excerpts from a Podcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Podcast interludes, which can be found in some versions of the podfic.

Excerpts from a podcast.

Gilbert: Welcome to Roswell New Mexico, where in the summer you can fry an egg on the pavement but it still snows in winter. Oh, and aliens are real. One of those facts you don’t believe, and I know it’s not the aliens.

Cyd: Things have definitely gotten spooky around here.

Maggie: Spooky doesn’t begin to cover it.

C: Suspicious? Would that work?

M: Seems legit.

G: [talking over them] All your life you live so close to the truth…

M: The truth is out there and we live right next door. We’re here to probe for details.

C: Can we please not say probe?

M: Nope. I’m gonna say it.

G: Loud and Proud.

[sound of a high five]

G: But seriously, we’re here to talk to you about a threat. A very real threat to our safety, to our way of life.

C: We lived next to them our whole lives and we never knew. We never suspected!

M: Mysterious disappearances? Unusual black outs? (a pause) as opposed to the usual ones, I guess.

C: The really nice barista who remembers everyone’s orders suddenly acting weird?

G: Strange occurrences that happened your whole life, so you never thought to question them.

M: You should have questioned them.

C: We were too close…

G: It was a blur in our eye…

M: And then you got a nudge…

C: It all lined up…

G: So we’re here to inform.

C: And we’re here to protect.

[long pause]  
G: Should we have a dramatic squad name or something?

-  
G: Every hometown has a secret, and here is ours: aliens are real.

M: They are real and they’re here. And we’re going to tell you how to protect yourself.

C: Weird, unexplainable things have always happened here. Rolling blackout that had nothing to do with weather conditions, generator failures, or down wires.

M: Mysterious deaths and disappearances that remain unexplained. That time one of the local racists donated money to support immigrant families.

G: How the suspiciously hot doctor keeps asking for weird favors.

C: Hey! They aren’t weird!

M: I like how that’s your point of protest. I mean, really, the blood was sparkly!

G: -Or how long-forgotten fallout bunkers suddenly being found and utilized for the first time in years.

C: [softly and with feeling] Or how people never listen to their doctors when they tell you not to mix medications with depressants.

G: Yeah, that wasn’t really where I was going with that.

C: Well it should be, no one should be stumbling around and passing out at bars when on anti-psychotics…

M: Holy- 

G: Shit. That wasn’t the meds.

C: Ooooh. [softly, but with feeling] goodness gracious me oh my.

-

G: We have a UFO museum in town. It’s Roswell, right? No one’s surprised. It’s about the crash, our town’s history. Up until a few weeks ago, it was ran by the same man for the last ten years. He was a… good man…

M: Weird. Seriously very weird, but still good.

G: He had it closed for refurbishment, you know bring it in to modern times.

C: I remember our middle school field trip there. Pretty sure it hadn’t been updated since the late 70s.

G: God, do you remember the huge styrofoam space ships? Or that weird plastic doll for vivisection?

C: I still have nightmares about that.

G: You have nightmares about Bambi.

C: His mother dies!

M: Focus guys. Museum. Repairs. That whole thing.

G: Exactly. Right, so, it was shut down. And all the displays were in storage out in the middle of nowhere. It went up in flames.

C: Very suspicious.

M: There was a shoot-out, where the shooter doesn’t remember what occurred, two additional victims- one a deputy!- and a mysterious package as well.

C: Even more suspicious!

G: Are you just going to keep repeating that?

C: Maybe. [a pause] it’s suspicious, okay? 

G: Right. So, I have evidence that all of this is true. It’s not like everything else that was in that museum.

-  
M: Seriously, pretty sure there’s no more damning evidence than the military coming to threaten you about what you know.

G: Or really, threaten you for what they think you _might_ know.

C: Should we even be mentioning this?

-

G: Some things should be kept a secret.

M: Like whether or not someone is on a voluntary psych hold at the hospital, but how there are no symptoms an-- ouch!

C: [whispered] HIPAA! I could lose my job!

M: Right.

-

M: ...faith healers! How desperate do you have to be! And to not even be able to search for the damn flyer yourself! Like, it’s a reverse image search man! All for a faith healer!

C: Many religions have faith healing within their practices, you know. Both physical and spiritual healing abilities is a gift.

G: So… faith healing is too far but aliens are definitely real. Got it.

M: It’s not the faith healing! I wouldn’t be surprised if one of our town’s aliens could heal, it’s the principle of the thing! How does a deputy not know how to google something? Don’t they have to like, do research and like cross-reference past cases?

C: So suspicious.

M: Oh my god.  
-

C: [Giggles]. Pods.

M: Literal pod people.

G: The Roswell aliens came- [pauses questioning] hatched? Emerged? Evolved like pokemon? Budded?-

C: Not budding, that implies that they use some form of asexual reproduct-

G:Less science, please. Okay, so. Hatched. They hatched from pods? Do you think maybe they might prefer something else? Not pods, but...

M: What, like they hatched from eggs?

G: Good point. But, abandoned mines would be the perfect place to hide pods.

C: Yeah, no one goes there.

M: You telling me no one had parties in the abandoned mines when you were in high school?

G: Eh, more like you were there to get high. Plus, there were shafts that were easier to get to.

M: I bet you got all the shafts there you could.

C: Guys!

[long beat]  
G: At least we didn’t say probe.


End file.
